The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(110)

“It’s perfect!”

*

July 1817

I had the most wonderful day of my life today. I have an awful pain in my side. There was the part where I almost died. That was unfortunate. And Victoria is still barely speaking to me. It makes me sad that she still believes I abandoned her. In time, I know we’ll reconcile, though. She’s my sister. We fight and we forgive; it’s what we do. But near death, pain, and lingering anger don’t matter in light of what happened next. I’m engaged to be married! It was the most romantic proposal ever. The room was filled with flowers he brought me—my favorite flowers. Fallon, the man of my dreams, was sitting at my side. And he asked me to be his wife. I said yes, of course, after a bit of discussion.

It was odd, that conversation—though rather heated on occasion—wasn’t one of anger but of desperate need to understand. There was confrontation, but it didn’t lead to screams or slammed doors. Instead it led to an agreement to marry, to joy, and to a future better than any found in the pages of a book. I’m in love.

When he kissed my hand, I nearly melted down into my bedclothes. He loves me. Fallon St. James loves me! I will spend the rest of my days at his side, and happiness will bloom forever around us.

—Lady Isabelle Fairlyn, soon to be Mrs. St. James

Grand Matron of the Spare Heirs Society





Epilogue


December 1817

Headquarters—London, England

Fallon was reclining at his desk in the library, studying a stack of documents in his hands as he did every morning.

He was surrounded by papers in a quiet room, yet the lines around his eyes had eased over the past few months. He certainly never missed an opportunity to take an afternoon to walk with Isabelle in the park, visit her in the now-tidy rooftop garden, or come to their bed at night. And he was about to eat before noon, whether he liked it or not.

Isabelle smiled at him as she crossed the room, the platter she’d taken from the housekeeper braced against one hip. “I have something for you.”

“Cakes?” he asked with a curious smile as he spotted her and set his papers aside. “It’s barely eight in the morning.”

“I know, but they smelled delicious. I couldn’t resist. Try one.” She lifted one of the small lemon cakes and threw it across the room to her husband.

Reaching up and grabbing the cake from the air above his head, he laughed. Laughter was often heard in the halls of headquarters now. “You don’t have to throw sweets at my head to get me to eat, you know.”

“You know I’m fond of sending platters of cakes to the floor. Not to mention if one hits the rug, you’ll be forced to flee the scene of the crime before Mrs. Featherfitch scolds you for making a mess.” She threw another. “That was your own advice, after all.”

“Isabelle,” he said in a halfhearted attempt at admonishment as he grinned at her. “I’m reviewing the investments that you had a hand in, but since you’re here…” He stood, dodging one cake, then catching another and taking a bite. “That is delicious. Come with me.” He rounded the desk and wrapped her icing-covered hand in his, taking the platter from her and leaving it on a side table.

“Where are we going?” she asked, turning to follow along at Fallon’s side. “To the garden? Back to bed?”

He smirked at her, his look filled with promises for later this evening. Then lifting her fingers to his lips, he sucked the lingering icing from her fingertip. She slowed to a stop beside the staircase that led to the upper floors of their home, looking up at him. She would follow him anywhere, but it would be a pleasant change to know what he had planned.

“You aren’t going to tell me where we’re going, are you? One day I will get you to tell me all of your secrets.”

“You know all my secrets. You and only you, my beautiful wife.” He kissed the backs of her knuckles. His eyes were locked on hers in a piercing gaze, as if he were willing her to believe him. And she did. They’d lain awake nights for months, telling each other stories, not of legend or myth, but of experiences from their own pasts. She knew Fallon St. James first as her friend, then as her lover, now as her husband. But there was still an air of mystery surrounding his actions that she rather thought he enjoyed.

“I don’t know where we’re going right now,” she complained, but he only tugged her to move past the open door of the drawing room where gentlemen’s voices could always be heard.

“There’s a difference between secrets and surprises,” he said as he led her to the dining room door.

“Oh! It’s a surprise?” She almost bounced in her excitement but clung to Fallon’s arm instead as he opened the door.

Stepping inside, she looked up at the painting that hung on the most prominent wall of the room—her painting, her stolen painting and the one that had ultimately brought them together. She released Fallon’s arm and moved forward to admire it.

“I contacted the librarian at the museum. He oversaw the repairs to the frame, and I had it brought here. Most of the house is still full of Spares, but this room isn’t ever used by the men. Your friends will be here to visit in a few days’ time…and I thought the two of us could dine together here, perhaps someday with a family. I want this place to be your home. I know I have no castle to offer you, but this—”